Through a Dark Mirror
by Deadwoodpecker
Summary: Some mistakes are nearly impossible to fix. AU.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

_Seven months before the Final Battle_

Ron sat on the edge of the swollen river, the rain pelting on his back, but he did not notice the cold. The anger he'd felt before he'd deserted Hermione and Harry had long since disappeared. The urgent, nauseous feeling that had accompanied him on his night of searching for them had also dissipated, leaving weariness that pressed heavily on his shoulders.

He'd fucked up big time.

"Bloody moron," Ron swore, peering through the gloom, hoping to find his best mate, and his – well, his Hermione – materializing out of the rain. But there was no sign of the tent, or of them. _What's _wrong_with me?_ he asked himself for the fiftieth time.

The feelings that had driven him to leave had been snuffed out like a candle. In the moment, he'd been so _certain_ that he was right, that Harry had led them to believe that he knew more than he'd let on, that they should have been done with the damn Horcrux hunt. For weeks, it had been building up inside of him: resentment for Harry, who was clueless and floundering; and anger with Hermione, who continued to defend him.

Dropping his head in his hands, Ron winced at the things he'd said and done. He could still hear Hermione, screaming at him not to leave.

"Shit," he breathed.

The rain continued on unceasing, and the river threatened to rise further up the bank and soak him even more completely than he already was. Gradually, Ron began to realize that even though he'd obviously gone off his nut, that didn't mean that he was impervious to the cold or damp. Unfortunately, he didn't have anywhere to go.

The Burrow was out of the question. Ron scoffed at the thought of returning home, where he'd find biting ridicule from the twins. Hogwarts was also a no go. The thought of himself sauntering up the drive, all healed from his supposed spattergroit, and joining the rest of the school was ludicrous. He didn't much fancy the idea of sleeping within the vicinity of Ginny and her wand when he'd deserted Harry.

There was really only one place for him to go. Heaving himself up, wincing at the pain in his fingers from where he'd splinched himself, Ron didn't waste any time. Thinking very determinedly of the small cottage Bill and Fleur had purchased before their wedding, he turned on the spot.

Shell Cottage was exactly where he had left it: standing on a lonely cliff overlooking the sea. Giving a cursory glance in every direction – hoping that his brother wasn't being watched – Ron strode across the small, grassy yard.

"Bill!" he said loudly, knocking on the door.

It swung open a few moments later. Fleur peered over Bill's shoulder; both of them looked concerned and worried. "Ron?" Bill asked in disbelief. "What the hell is going on?"

"It's a long story," said Ron, pushing past them. The sitting room was full of all sorts of magical artifacts; it reminded Ron of his dad's shed, and the Muggle objects Arthur Weasley kept there. Bill and Arthur were two very different people, but it was interesting to see that Bill had picked up a few habits.

"Luckily we've got time," Bill said.

"Well… it starts and ends with me being a complete moron," Ron began, somehow managing to feel even more stupid with each passing second. He grimaced and braced himself, knowing that Bill wouldn't be impressed.

********************

_Five months before the Final Battle_

Ron lounged on Bill and Fleur's sofa, lazily flicking at the Deluminator Dumbledore had so stupidly given him. He was willing to bet that had Dumbledore known that Ron would so rashly desert Harry and Hermione during the Horcrux hunt, there would have been no little gifts for Ron in Dumbledore's will.

"Merlin, Ron, can you brood any more?" Bill asked, poking his head into the sitting room.

Ron flipped him off, though with little heat behind it. He had this conversation with his brother at least twice a day. It always went something like this: Bill would try to encourage him to get off the couch, Ron would refuse, Bill would get frustrated and tell him to go look for Harry and Hermione, and then Ron would explain (again) that he had no clue where they were.

Another click of the Deluminator, and the lights went off.

"If you're this upset, can't you just go out and find them?" Bill asked forcefully, coming into the room, and looking personally insulted that Ron had turned out the lights.

"Yeah, I'll get right on that, Bill," Ron said. "After all, Hermione isn't very talented at spells – I'm sure I'll find them straightaway."

"You could at least _search_--"

"I could," Ron agreed, feeling a deep well of sarcasm growing in the pit of his stomach. "Britain isn't very big, shouldn't take more than a couple of minutes to find 'em."

Bill let out a noisy sigh and, shoving Ron's feet off the sofa, sat down heavily. Ron had been living at Shell Cottage ever since the night he'd apparently lost his mind and deserted his best mate and his – well, his Hermione. Bill had been disgusted with Ron ever since he'd shown up, and it apparently hadn't abated. Nor should it.

"Any news?" Ron asked.

"Not about Harry and Hermione," Bill answered immediately. "Saw Tonks this morning, though – Merlin, she's big; almost as big as Mum was when she was pregnant with the twins."

Ron gave him an affronted look. _Does Bill think I care about shit like that?_

"It's been quiet," Bill said. "Even at work. The goblins gave me an artifact to work on here at home – they didn't want it to fall into a Death Eater's hands, so I think they might be coming around to our side." His nose wrinkled and he stared out the window at the wintry, coastal landscape. "There's a curse to break, of course, but I think they gave it to me knowing I'd keep it safe."

Now _this_ was a little more interesting. "What is it?" Ron asked, a little stir of curiosity brightening his mood. He had to admit that having an older brother for a Curse Breaker was pretty fun – especially when he brought artifacts home and taunted his younger siblings with all the cool things he got to do.

"It's a… well, it's a little hard to explain," said Bill. For some reason, he gave Ron a wary look. "And I'm not sure if I should even tell you, you might try to use it."

Ron rolled his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. "Whatever," he muttered, shrugging. Privately, he thought it was a bit rich of Bill to assume that Ron would just blithely steal one of his work projects and use it to his own ends. He fully admitted to being a moron and being disloyal, but he wasn't _completely_stupid.

A hand reached out and smacked him upside the head. "You're really pathetic, you know," said Bill. Drawing his wand, he pointed it at the driftwood in the hearth. An instant later, a cheery fire blazed. "Try to put _that_ out with your Deluminator," Bill said smugly.

"No need to get abusive," Ron muttered, tossing the Deluminator on the ground. Frankly, he was a bit tired of wallowing. A lot tired of wallowing, but he didn't really have anything else to do. It was Christmas break for Hogwarts students, and he didn't fancy going home and telling everyone how he'd run off like a fool. That limited his possibilities of actually taking part in the war.

"Don't be an idiot," Bill said, scratching at his stubble. "It's a magically complex artifact, which means that it has several different spells—"

"I think I can figure out what complex means," said Ron, annoyed.

"All the spells used were inherent in its creation," said Bill. "Including a charm that senses the heart's desire—"

"Wait, is this the Erised Mirror, or whatever?" Ron interrupted.

Bill gave him a look that Ron took to mean his older brother was quickly running out of patience. "No, it isn't. That's just one of the charms. Another is the original creator added a bit of his own… intelligence, I suppose. There are accounts that those who've used it actually had a conversation with the artifact. But the biggest charm is that it can… grant wishes. It uses the heart's desire to grant the wish, supposedly."

Ron whistled, immediately seeing why the goblins wanted this particular artifact from getting into You-Know-Who's hands. He didn't even want to picture the damage that bastard could do with a wish. "I see the problem," Ron admitted. "But on our side, it wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

Bill pointed at him. "And that's exactly why I was a little nervous about telling you," he said. "It isn't a toy, and it shouldn't be used. By anyone, I don't think."

Ron didn't think it would be a bad thing, but what did he know? He wasn't a Curse Breaker, and he didn't know anything about the way powerful magical objects were used. Even if a wish granting object could be used to defeat You-Know-Who and put an end to this mad war – Ron had sudden visions of him wielding the artifact, and making all of their problems go away in the blink of an eye – Bill probably knew better.

"Plus, there's the matter of the curse," said Bill. "I haven't found it yet, but all the written accounts of the artifact have stated that while their wish came true, it happened… backwards, I guess."

"Yeah, that's bad," said Ron, feeling suddenly weary of the conversation. He reached down and picked up the Deluminator again, flicking it open. "Just make sure you keep it safe – what's it look like, anyway? Is it one of those lamps?"

"Thanks for telling me how to do my job," Bill said sarcastically. "And it's not a lamp. Do you believe every fairy tale you read? It's an armband, actually, with Egyptian heiroglyphs all over it. But Ron… I swear to God, if you go looking for it just so you can go back to camping with Harry and Hermione…"

"Bugger off," Ron said, offended. "You told me not to, didn't you?"

But despite his reassurance for his brother, the armband continued to intrigue Ron. What if he could just wish away the fact that he'd deserted Harry and Hermione? Life would be so much easier… he wouldn't have to feel guilty or ashamed. He could be out there helping them, instead of impersonating a lump on his brother's sofa.

The desire to use it grew by the day, and one night, Ron even dreamed that it was somehow talking to him, whispering to him. Whenever Bill wasn't around and Fleur was occupied, he took to staring at it like a complete nutter. It didn't even look all that great. It was gold, definitely, but it was old and didn't shine. The hieroglyphs looked all flowy and thin, like something a witch might wear.

Still, though. Ron kept physically removing himself from that corner of the sitting room, gritting his teeth, and fighting the urge to just put it on. _You don't want to put it on! It isn't meant for blokes!_ he kept telling himself.

On Christmas Eve – actually, the early hours of Christmas morning – Ron paced up and down the sitting room. It had been _months_ since he'd been in the tent with Hermione and Harry… months since he'd deserted them. And Ron had no way of getting back to where he wanted to be.

Except one.

"You promised Bill," he muttered to himself. _But you also promised Hermione and Harry that you'd help them,_ a little voice pointed out fairly. Ron's eyes caught on the armband; it gleamed in the low light of the driftwood fire in the hearth.

Frankly, he would've thrown the promise to Bill out the window six days ago, had he not also reminded himself time and again about the curse laid on it. True, Bill could've already broken the curse, but Ron was afraid to ask. He didn't want to expose that he was extremely tempted by the armband. Though he had a feeling that Bill already suspected.

But it was Christmas, and Ron was having a hard time caring about the curse. Three times, he reached out for it, pulling back just before his fingers closed around the object. _What the hell can it hurt?_ Ron asked, sitting heavily on the sofa and putting his head in his hands.

Lifting his eyes, he noticed the way the burnished gold reflected the flames. The hieroglyphs seemed fluid, melting into different shapes and patterns before his very eyes. _I wish…_

Ron was three steps away from the armband and was completely determined to put it on and make his wish, when the forgotten object in his pocket stopped him in his tracks.

"Ron's wand was never the same after it was broken!"

It was Hermione's voice. Ron gaped down at his pocket, utterly flabbergasted. _What the bloody hell? How did _she_ get into my pocket?_ There was no mistaking that voice; forceful, determined, and a tad shrill, there was no way that it could be anyone else but Hermione.

Ron pulled out the Deluminator, from which Hermione's voice had come. Forgetting about the armband for the first time in over a week, hope leapt suddenly and painfully in his belly. Without even thinking, he flicked it. Instead of the lights going out, a small light came out of it and bobbed in front of him.

Sparing one final glance at the armband, Ron made an instant decision. _If whatever the hell this type of weird magic doesn't work, I'll come back for it,_ he told himself. Seconds later, he was clattering up the stairs and into the room he'd been sleeping in. Using a combination of magic and muscle, he wrestled his strewn belongings into his rucksack. The light that had come out of the Deluminator had gone outside; Ron watched it through the window.

"Where are you going?" Bill asked sleepily, appearing at the open door. He scratched his stomach, yawning.

"Back to Hermione," Ron said resolutely. "And Harry," he added.

"Good luck," said Bill.

Ron barely heard him; instead, he flew down the stairs and out the door.

_Finally._


	2. Chapter One: Pyre

**CHAPTER ONE: PYRE**

_One week after the Final Battle_

All activity in the wizarding world had halted. Wizards and witches drifted in a state of shock, unsure of whether to celebrate or mourn, to laugh or cry. Those who had fought at the Battle of Hogwarts felt a mixture of both pride and grief. The dust began to settle, slowly and painstakingly. Kingsley Shacklebolt became the interim Minister of Magic; Hogwarts began to be rebuilt; and St. Mungo's patched fighters up and sent them on their way.

Then the funerals began.

Each one caused Ron Weasley a little bit of pain. He stood at Hermione's side through Colin Creevey's, Ernie MacMillan's, and Justin Finch-Fletchley's. He hadn't known them well, but they'd all been in Dumbledore's Army together, and how could he not go? He ignored the stares and pointing, wondering if Harry had always found it so intrusive.

"What are you laughing at?" Hermione asked gently, as they walked to the Apparition point outside of the village of Baggleton. It had been particularly difficult to witness Dennis Creevey's grief. And his dad's… that was even worse. Colin's Muggle father kept staring at his hands, and then at the wizards and witches gathered in his son's honor, this horrible bewilderment spread across his broad face.

"Nothing," Ron shook his head, feeling the humor slipping back toward grief.

Remus and Tonks' funeral – a double one – was worse than Colin's, Justin's, or Ernie's. Andromeda sat stiffly in the front; she sat alone and stared straight ahead. The Weasley family, minus Ginny, who really wasn't in any shape to go anywhere, gathered en masse to sit behind her. Neither by word nor gesture did she acknowledge they were there.

Ron's mother sobbed through the entire thing, and he wondered how she was going to survive Fred's and—

"What about poor little Teddy?" his mum whispered as some prat chattered on about how noble and decent and wonderful Remus and Tonks were. Ron wondered if the moron even knew if Remus was a werewolf. Not that they weren't great people, but this tufty-haired pillock didn't know them at all.

"Teddy doesn't have anyone but… but Andromeda," his mum continued.

"He has us," Hermione said firmly, gripping Ron's hand so tightly that he thought his fingers might just snap. "We'll tell him… he won't be like Neville, or – or H-Harry."

The day they buried Fred, it was sunny and warm for the first time in ages. The hills outside the small cemetery in the village were filled with riotous color. Luna even walked in wreathed in flowers. Ron wondered if that was some old funeral tradition that Ron knew nothing about. Knowing Luna, it was likely. Either way, she stood out while everyone else wore black or grey.

Ron's mother had not made the same mistake that Andromeda had. Instead of a somber official who presided over the event and made a mockery of everything that Fred had stood for, people who knew him spoke. Angelina Johnson shared that Fred had been a fun dancer. Lee told everyone a funny story of the day before Fred's first Quidditch match.

Tears streamed steadily down his face through the entire thing. It seemed to hit him about once every minute: Fred was gone. He would never again tease Ron, or stand up for him, or laugh at Percy. Thankfully, no one stared or whispered or anything at all; everyone there knew the family. Ron was just Ron, not someone to be stared at and whispered about.

The worst part was when his dad got up to share a few words, but couldn't manage it. Just stood up at the front, fists clenching and unclenching, mouth trembling, and face bright red. With a shake of his head and avoiding all eye contact, Arthur sat back down.

Lack of oxygen and a painful tightening in his chest made Ron realize that he'd been holding his breath. He let it out slowly, closing his eyes and wanting more than anything to lay his head on Hermione's shoulder and take comfort from her. But the sound of huge, wracking sobs pushed that thought out of Ron's head.

He knew, without even having to look, that it was George.

"HE ISN'T _DEAD_!" George suddenly shouted.

Before the final battle, Ron might've been embarrassed for his brother. Or he might have been an uncomfortable witness to his brother's grief. But something had happened to him the night he and Harry had walked together toward Voldemort and Harry's death, and Ron had no problem seeing someone else's tears.

Merlin knew he'd cried enough of his own.

"George," Ron said, looking to his left. No one else seemed able or willing to say anything. Ginny, wrapped tightly in her own grief, put her head in her hands.

"He isn't," George said, more quietly. "He isn't," he sounded very young, and sort of lost. "How can… we haven't really… he's always been around. With me. I don't know…"

Ron reached around Ginny and clasped George's shoulder. His brother's face was screwed up, and his eyes were swollen. Ron was pretty sure that George hadn't slept for more than a few hours at a time since Fred's death. Chairs squeaked, and throats were cleared. Without having to look, Ron knew that everyone without the last name Weasley or Granger had the sudden desire to flee.

"I can't believe it either," Ron said honestly, throat tight and blocked. "I really, really can't." Even though he'd seen Fred's death with his own two eyes, it still seemed so unreal, like it couldn't possibly have happened.

The anger fled George's face, though tears fell unchecked as he bowed his head.

By the time the funeral had ended and Ron was alone with Hermione in his attic bedroom, Ron was so weary that he wanted to close his eyes and not wake up for a week. His eyes were dry, but his stomach cramped. They sat down together on Ron's bed. The room smelled of ghoul and the camp bed was gone, but Ron ignored that and focused, instead, on the warm weight of Hermione in his arms.

"Just one more," she said quietly, worrying at the sleeve of her robe.

"Yeah," Ron expelled a breath. "How's Ginny?"

"I think… I think she's still in shock. She won't – she doesn't really say anything to me, unless she's shouting. Not at me, but, you know, the situation," Hermione replied.

She was trying to sound strong, but her voice quavered when she said _situation._ Ron stroked her hair; it was soft under his fingertips. Hermione turned into his touch, and he cradled her head in the palm of his hand. Leaning forward, he gave her a kiss. Despite everything, he still felt a little bubble of joy at being allowed to do this. And that she seemed to want him to.

She turned and wrapped her arms around him, and when their lips met, it was almost desperate in its intensity. Their limbs tangled up in each other, and Ron tried to show her, through his kiss, what she meant to him, and how much he needed her beside him. At first, their kisses were overshadowed by grief, but need and desire soon rose up inside Ron.

Hermione moaned against his mouth when he slid his hand inside her robes. Her skin was smooth and silky, and he wanted to—

"Ron," she said breathlessly. "Ron, wait."

With massive effort, Ron pulled himself away, and rested his forehead against hers. "Right. Right, I'm sorry, I—"

"Lock the door," Hermione told him.

Ron blinked, then stared. "What?" he said blankly.

"I said lock the door," she replied, enunciating very carefully. "I want you to lock the door. I – I need you," she added, cheeks staining bright pink. "I love you, and this is the only… I need you tonight. Please, I—"

Ron interrupted her with a quick kiss. "You had me at lock the door," he murmured. "No need to beg. Though," he continued, trying to look thoughtful. "I do appreciate the begging…"

Hermione chuckled, brushing at her wet cheeks, and arranging herself self-consciously on the bed while Ron reached for his wand. "_Colloportus,_" he said.

The door locked with a squelch.

********************************

The little graveyard in Godric's Hollow was nearly empty. Everyone had wanted to come, of course, but Ron and Hermione had put their feet down. Harry had spent the last seven years being scrutinized by people who didn't even know him, and he deserved privacy, for once, when those who loved him best said goodbye.

Harry's body had been swallowed up by flames. Ron had unleashed Fiendfyre after Voldemort had cast the Killing Curse, and everything in the clearing had turned to ashes. If he concentrated hard enough, Ron could still smell it.

Hermione squeezed his hand as they carefully picked their way around headstones and tree roots. The sun shone down, and Ron squinted in the bright light.

"Do you know what you're going to say?" she asked.

"No idea," Ron answered immediately, even though that wasn't quite the truth. There was a hell of a lot that Ron wanted to say, but how could seven years of friendship be condensed into just a few minutes? It seemed almost as impossible as the fact that Harry was dead in the first place.

"After – well, after we _you know_… I wrote a speech," she said quickly, reaching into the pocket of her robes and pulling out a thick roll of parchment. Ron was a little surprised; after they'd made love and she'd left his room, disheveled and flustered, all Ron had been able to do was roll over and go to sleep.

"I'm sure it's excellent," Ron told her.

As usual, she had to argue with him. "I'm sure it isn't," she said in a scolding tone. But her fingers were shaking so much that Ron had to take the parchment from her. "It's… it's too long, and personal, and I doubt it even made sense. I was just… writing and writing, and I couldn't stop."

"It'll be perfect," Ron said. "Even if it's just a bunch of – what did you always call 'em on the essays you corrected for me? Fragmented sentences and – and--?"

"Blatant abuse of the English language," Hermione finished for him.

"Right. That," Ron nodded. Their steps slowed and they eventually stopped just a little way away from their destination. Hermione stared down at the ground, her hand held over her trembling lips. Drawing a shaky breath and feeling his eyes stinging, he rubbed the back of her neck.

With visible effort, she drew herself up and straightened her shoulders. "It's good that the press isn't here," she said, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

The Burrow had been besieged by wizards and witches wanting to hear from Ron's own lips how it had happened. But Ron had absolutely no desire to tell everyone what he had seen and done in the Forbidden Forest. That was private and the details didn't need to be shared.

His father had asked, politely, if he could view the memories through the Pensieve. And Ron had told him no, just as politely. Maybe he'd tell them everything someday, when the words would come out. But not any time soon. It was enough that they knew that Harry had been a Horcrux, that he'd had to die, and that Ron had been there with him.

"Ron?" Hermione's hands tangled in his hair. It was her turn to offer him comfort and he took it, pressing a kiss against the palm of her hand.

"Let's go," he jerked his head toward the grave.

They were the last ones there, and everyone stood silently, expecting them. Ron knew everyone there, of course: his family, the surviving members of Dumbledore's Army and the Order of the Phoenix, and professors.

Hagrid was head and shoulders above the small crowd; he was already sobbing into a handkerchief the size of a table. Luna stood next to him, patting him on the arm; the flowers she'd wreathed herself in must be very heavy, for her shoulders were slumped as though she carried a great weight. Neville stood beside both of them, talking quietly with Dean and Seamus. Even Professor Trelawney was there, looking particularly muddled, and listing to the side. Professor McGonagall held her up.

But Ron only gave them a cursory glance; instead, he sought the person he was most worried about. Ginny stood between their mother and father; her posture was so rigid that Ron worried a sudden wind would break her in half. His little sister had only two modes now: furious and silent. He stared at her for a little while, but she offered him nothing but her profile.

There was an awkward moment when everyone but Ginny turned to look at him, expecting him to start off. Ron cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, forehead breaking out into a sweat. _Maybe Hermione wants to go first,_ was his hopeful thought. But when he glanced down at her, she shook her head, let go of his hand, and gave him a little push.

Ron stumbled forward.

For a few horrible moments, he gaped, looking, he was certain, like a complete moron. His chest was tight as though the words he was supposed to say had clogged somewhere in that vicinity. Instead, he turned his gaze to the simple stone. All kinds of enchantments had been laid over it – the Imperturbable Charm, the Self-Cleaning Charm, and a whole host of others. But it looked plain – just the way Ron thought Harry might like it.

His name, his birth date and death date, and the words _No greater love hath a man than to lay down his life for a friend_ were inscribed on the smooth face of the marker. Ron's vision blurred, and he swiped angrily at his face. If he cried now, he'd never get a chance to talk.

Ron steeled himself.

"I used to want to be just as famous as Harry," Ron admitted. "Have all of that… intrigue and – I dunno – hero worship, I guess. But Harry never wanted it."

Despite his best intentions, Ron couldn't block a little hint of a memory from sliding through his barriers._Do you think it hurts to die, Ron?_ Harry had asked, before looking mortified. Harry had never wanted to die, but when the alternative was allowing Voldemort to wreak havoc and kill the people he loved, Harry had made the hard choice.

"I never really understood," Ron said painfully. "Harry didn't want awards or – or fame. He just wanted to keep the people he loved safe. Besides that… he was just a normal bloke who"—Ron's voice broke—"just couldn't catch a break." An image of Harry rose in his mind: laughing and happy. Just as suddenly, he saw Harry as he'd been right before he died: pale and certain. "All of that… shit with Voldemort happened when Harry was just a baby. He said… Harry said that didn't matter, though, that when it came down to it, he would've made the same decision even without – without the prophecy guiding him."

He paused and looked around at the faces. No one spoke or even appeared to move. The weight of their scrutiny was suddenly too much, and everything else he wanted to say flew right out of his head. All he had were feelings: grief, rage, and a maddening helplessness were all he had to offer.

And Ron was notoriously bad at sharing his feelings. Shaking his head, he looked at Hermione, and stepped back. "I… can't," he said quietly.

Hermione nodded, and performed the charm that would make her voice louder. Ron turned away and stared at Harry's grave again. Hermione fared little better than Ron had. She read about a sentence of the speech she'd prepared before she fell apart and started sobbing.

"I – I – I can't do this," she said, after several more attempts to talk. "I'm sorry, I just… can't."

Ron wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head. It took her three fumbling tries to release the Sonorus Charm on herself, and his heart ached at her pain. Other people spoke, but Ron didn't pay much attention to them; it was more important for him to offer her (and himself) words of comfort. He held her to him as her body shook.

It seemed like no time at all had passed before people began leaving. Others stayed, talking quietly in small groups as they had before the funeral. Ron watched as Ginny snatched her arm out of their mother's grasp, turned on the spot, and Apparated away with a loud crack.

Just as he was considering following her, to deliver the message that Harry had wanted him to give her, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Professor McGonagall. She looked less forbidding than usual, and Ron noticed that she'd buttoned up her cloak wrong.

"I'm sorry to intrude, Mr. Weasley," she said. "And Miss Granger. I am… deeply sorry for your loss."

"Thanks, Professor," Ron said.

"Thank you," Hermione said, voice muffled by his chest.

"If I had favorite students, Harry would have been – the three of you would have been among them," she said stiffly. Ron was amazed to see her eyes sparkling with tears. "Speaking of – of professors who displayed a rather cheerful lack of professionalism… Dumbledore's portrait would very much like to speak to you, Mr. Weasley."

Ron gaped at her. _Close your mouth, fool,_ he told himself. "Me?" he squeaked.

"Yes, you," McGonagall said with a hint of humor.

"Er…" said Ron, shuffling his feet, and wondering what Dumbledore's portrait wanted from him. Surely he knew just as much as Ron did. "Right. I'll go," he heard himself say. "Just… not today, or maybe not even this week," he hastened to add.

She nodded. "He'll be patient, I'm sure," she said.

Ron did not know what to say to Dumbledore's portrait. He didn't really want to talk about that night at all. It was personal, and Ron didn't like to think about the Forbidden Forest on fire, Harry's last moments. The way Narcissa had triumphantly announced his death, and the laughter from Voldemort's supporters still rang in his ears.

"I think I might wait a little while," Ron said, wrapping his arm around Hermione's shoulders, and squinting a little in the distance.

"I think you should take as long as you need," Hermione said quietly. Unlike everyone else – even his dad – Hermione seemed to guess or understand that Ron just couldn't talk about what had happened. Not yet. Whenever he thought about it too closely, it made his skin burn and his insides twist, and Ron didn't want to have a complete bloody breakdown in front of his entire family.

His family needed him to be strong.

**************************

_Two weeks after the Final Battle_

Ron knocked on Ginny's door, feeling unaccountably nervous. He was still feeling raw from the funeral, and he just wanted to go lay down with Hermione and not have to think about anything. But Harry had asked two things of him before he'd died: to make sure that Voldemort didn't walk away from Hogwarts, and to tell Ginny how Harry had felt for her.

The door swung open of its own accord.

"Better not let Mum catch you doing underage magic," Ron tried to grin, but couldn't manage it. Ginny gave him a dirty look. "Right," he said, nodding. "That was stupid, but I…" he let his voice trail away, stuffing his hands in his pockets. After a fleeting glance, he couldn't look at her.

_I'm going to fuck this up,_ Ron thought dismally. It was the whole… feelings thing that got him. "Listen… Harry wanted me to tell you…"

"Yes?" she said, almost eagerly. "Harry wanted you to tell me what?"

He chanced another glance at her. Her eyes were wide, with deep smudges under them. There was a little cut on her cheekbone that hadn't healed yet, and Ron had never seen her face so pale.

He grimaced. _Do this for Harry,_ he reminded himself. "He was in love with you," Ron told her in a rush, forcing the words out. Taking a deep breath, he realized that it had not been quite as bad as he thought it would be. "He – er – he loved you very much," he added lamely, when Ginny stared at him, barely breathing.

Ron wanted to run out of the room when her face crumpled. But before he could, she'd thrown herself into his arms; her body shook with sobs as he awkwardly, and feeling slightly panicked, patted her on the back. He wanted to make it better, but he was totally helpless.

"I know," she said. "I know he did, and I – I love him too, and it feels just… awful that V-Voldemort took him away…"

_Hermione is much better equipped for dealing with things like this_, thought Ron. But he continued the patting anyway. "I tried to stop him," Ron confessed, because he felt like he had to say something, to apologize for allowing Harry to die.

"He wouldn't have stopped," she said firmly. "It's part of why I love – loved him so much…"

"Yeah," said Ron.

"It just _hurts_," she said thickly, pulling away and mopping at her eyes with the sleeve of her robes._Harry's robes,_ Ron noted, wondering if he'd have wanted to wear something of Hermione's had she died. Imagining himself in a pair of Hermione's knickers, Ron had to bite back a laugh.

"I'm going to miss him too," Ron said, after the completely insane urge to chuckle had left him. Glancing over at the open door, he saw his dad leaning up against the wall just outside.

Ginny turned her back on him, shoulders slumped, and looking out her window at the orchard behind the Burrow. "Just… give me a few moments, Ron. Tell Mum I'll be down for dinner."

"I might not be back yet," said Ron. "After the – er – funeral, Professor McGonagall said Dumbledore's portrait wanted to talk to me. I hope he doesn't want me to replant the Forbidden Forest…"

"Don't joke about that, Ron," his dad said sternly, coming halfway into the room and jerking his head at Ron. "I need to talk to you, anyway, son, before you head to Hogwarts."

Ron nodded and followed his dad out the door, relieved that he'd done what Harry had asked him to, and that it hadn't been quite as difficult as he thought it might be. Halfway down the stairs, his dad paused, waiting for him to catch up. Together, they walked the rest of the way down, his dad's hand clasped firmly on his shoulder.

The sitting room was empty, though Ron could hear his mother puttering around in the kitchen just next door. _I hope she's making shepherd's pie,_ thought Ron. Maybe it was wrong of him, but he greatly appreciated his mum's cooking. It made… everything so much easier.

"I wanted to talk to you," his dad said. "I feel like we haven't really had a chance to, privately."

"Not since right before Harry came last year," said Ron.

"It feels like it's been years," said his dad, seating himself on the sofa. Ron chose to fold himself into the spindly little chair next to it. "How are you doing, Ron?"

Ron scratched the back of his neck. "I… well, I'm not so good," he admitted, squinting. The backs of his eyes stung -- _again_ -- and he wondered how long it would take before tears didn't come at a moment's notice. "I just…" his voice trailed away, and he spread his hands helplessly.

His dad nodded as though he'd expected this answer. "You've been very strong and supportive, don't think I haven't noticed," he said. Ron flushed and looked away. "But you also lived through things that had to have been very painful. Seeing Fred – seeing Fred pass away. And then going with Harry…"

Ron jerked his head to the side. "Dad," he said suddenly. "Do you think – do you think I did the right thing?" he asked, uncomfortable with how vulnerable he must sound. "With letting Harry go, and – and the Fiendfyre?"

Instead of answering him immediately, his dad eyed him compassionately. "I thought that might be bothering you," he said. "I think that the Fiendfyre—"

"I didn't really mean to do it, you know," Ron interrupted. "It was like… it was sort of accidental and sort of on purpose. As soon as Narcissa Malfoy told Voldemort that he was dead, I… was just so angry. They were _laughing_ at him, Dad, and I—"

"I don't blame you for it," his dad said quickly. "I honestly don't. It's… your mother and I have watched all of you – you and Ginny, especially – grow up too fast. And it's very painful for a father to realize that his son has had to make such hard decisions. But, God forgive me, I'm glad that Voldemort is dead."

Grimacing, Ron looked up at the ceiling.

"I am very proud of you. Your mother and I both are."

"It was Harry who beat him," Ron said in a raspy voice. "He defeated Voldemort. I just… finished it for him."

His dad seemed content to remain silent, and the grandfather clock ticked the seconds off. Ron sat feeling slightly uncomfortable but mostly relaxed. His dad's quiet, solid presence was a comfort that Ron had not been entirely aware that he'd needed. And, he realized, he felt less dread at talking to Dumbledore's portrait.

"Kingsley is coming by this evening," his dad said. "You're going to be around, right?"

"Yeah," said Ron vaguely. "I've got to go up to Hogwarts. McGonagall told me last week after the – after the funeral that Dumbledore's portrait wanted to talk to me. I've been putting it off, but…"

They both stood up at the exact same moment. His dad gave him a hug, squeezing tightly before letting go. "Do you want me to go with you?"

Shaking his head, Ron said, "No, I'll be okay. But thanks."

His dad reached out and gently tousled his hair, a gesture of affection that Ron remembered very well from his childhood. It filled him with a sort of peace about going to see the portrait. His dad was behind him, even though not physically, and that was all that mattered.

"Dad, I—" but Ron cut himself off, shaking his head. He wasn't even sure what he was about to say. Probably something stupid. There would be plenty of time for that later. There was a time to be a Keeper, and there was time to be a Seeker; right now he didn't have time to be emotional, he had to go seek answers.

"I'll see you later," he said instead.


	3. Chapter Two: Exile

**CHAPTER TWO: EXILE**

_Two weeks after the Final Battle_

The back door of the Burrow crashed open, bounced off the wall, and would have slammed closed had it not connected with the body moving across the threshold. Ron shouldered his way through it, so angry that he didn't bother being quiet, despite the extreme lateness of the hour.

Vision red, thoughts chaotic, Ron stormed up the steps, taking them two at a time, long legs barely exerting effort. _Fucking, sodding, bloody FOOL!_ The litany in his mind was a jumbled mass of swear words and an aching chasm of grief that threatened to swallow him whole.

George, roused from his room for the first time in a week, peeked his head out the door. "Ron, what--?" he said sleepily.

Ron ignored him.

Ginny was harder to ignore. She'd heard him coming, and blinked down at him from the landing, wrapped in a threadbare dressing gown with long pajama bottoms covering her feet. Ron suspected they were Harry's and he couldn't, couldn't look at her. Instead, he shoved past her.

"What's going on?" she asked his retreating back.

"None of your fucking business," Ron said, forcing the words out of his mouth. The right thing for her to do would have been to go back into her room so that Ron didn't have to see the shadows under her eyes and her grief-lined face; instead, she followed him.

"Something obviously happened," she said waspishly. "Just _tell_ me."

"I'M NOT TELLING YOU SHIT!" Ron turned and, glaring at a stretch of wall just over her left shoulder, pointed at her. It was hard to believe that earlier that day, he'd been delivering Harry's final message to her. If not for Ron's idiocy and anger, Harry would've been able to deliver it himself.

Breathing heavily, he continued on, just wanting to make it to his room, to be left in peace. It was not to be. George – sodding George, who hadn't spoken to anyone since Fred's funeral – was right behind Ginny. More doors opened and closed. _Oh, great,_ thought Ron. _Mum and Dad._ The only good thing was that Hermione was in Australia, fetching her parents.

"Ron, what's wrong?" his mother asked in what Ron considered her general's voice. The steely strength required in a mother of seven was present; her tone brooked no nonsense, and Ron was meant to obey it.

"Absolutely nothing," he said, voice heavy with sarcasm. He brushed off her concern, letting it trickle away. The anger burned in him like the Fiendfyre he had so foolishly cast. _He should have lived… he had his mother's blood flowing in his and Voldemort's veins… that should have anchored him to life._

"SHUT UP!" Ron roared. His mother looked genuinely shocked.

"I didn't say anything," she told him, shaken.

"Ron," his dad said, shocked. His glasses were askew, and his pajamas rumpled. "Don't talk to your mother like that. Why are you so _angry_?"

In the time that Ron had left the Burrow – after his father had said he was _proud_ of him – he'd been tossed from rage, to shock, to confusion, to pain, and back to rage again. Like he was in the hands of the Chasers from a particularly brutal Quidditch team.

_I think he would have survived,_ the portrait had said. The words echoed loudly in his ears. "Just leave it be," he rasped out, grinding his teeth. There was no way in hell he was going to stand there and tell them what he'd done; he'd already decided that seven hours ago.

"I just don't understand," his mother said, sounding more confused than commanding. She wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her body. "Kingsley was here, he…"

"He wants to plan a public ceremony… you're going to receive the Order of Merlin, First Class," his dad said, as though thinking this would make Ron feel better. As though the idea of receiving the highest honor of the Wizarding world would be a balm, rather than a burden.

A filmy red haze settled over his eyes, and he reeled backward, as though his father had struck him for the first time in his life. "I'd rather shove it up my lily white arse," said Ron, seething. A dim part of him hated the looks on their faces, especially his mum's, but in the face of his own stupidity, he was helpless to stop the tide of rage.

"What happened?" Ginny cried, sounding concerned, almost frightened.

His dad reached for him as he had earlier, wrapping his arms around him as though Ron was a small child in need of comfort.

But Ron couldn't stand it one second longer, so he pulled away, skirted around his dad, avoiding all eye contact, and almost ran to his attic bedroom. Whispered conversation followed him, and just before he slammed his door shut, he heard his mother's steady footfall as she came after him.

"Open the door, Ron."

Ron sat on the edge of his bed, suddenly more tired than he had ever been in his life. The Quaffle had been passed from rage to grief. Again. Too tired to keep her out, but too sick with himself to do anything more than wave his wand at the door. Head in his hands, he didn't move when she sat down beside him.

He didn't deserve it, but when she put her arm around his waist, he leaned into her touch. The tears that had been threatening to fall since he'd understood – fully understood – what he'd done came then. Fast and furious, they fell. His entire body felt like it was falling apart, as she whispered soothing words in his ear.

But no matter how hard he cried, the truth stayed with him: _I killed Harry._ Just as Harry had been about to achieve victory – one that left him _alive_ rather than ashes in the wake of Ron's fire – Ron had killed him.

"Just let it out, Ronnie," his mum whispered. "You've been so strong for all of us, just let it go…"

It was then that Ron pulled away, wiping his eyes, squeezing them shut. "I have to go," he said without thinking. "I have to get out of here." Feeling like an old man, he stood. "I just need to – get away," he told her. "Just for a little while," he lied, because her mouth had tightened, and her eyes had sparked, a sure sign that she was about to stop him.

"Just a little while?" she asked, believing him.

Ron nodded, waving his wand. His rucksack – still mostly packed and laying in a heap on the floor of his room – flew toward him. Then, remembering, he said softly, "_Accio_ tent!"

The tent that they had borrowed from Bill and Fleur, left in his room by Hermione before she had left for Australia, shot straight at him, and he caught it in his left hand.

Ron thought it might even be true, that he'd be back, when he could live with himself again. Just not any time soon.

********************************

_One month after the Final Battle_

_The forest was filled with eerie light that made strange shadows across Harry's face. Branches reached out skeletal fingers and caressed his torso, tugging at his robes almost playfully. Ron felt sick, as though he was about to vomit. Words came out of Harry's mouth, but they were muffled and whistling, and though he strained his ears, he could not understand them._

Lying in his bed, Ron turned over, mumbling, "No."__

Shadows like little creeping men walked with them as they made their way to the center of the forest, where Voldemort waited for Harry. Ron dug his heels into the springy, mossy ground, keeping up a litany of curses and denials that Harry ignored. Already, Harry moved like one of the dead, gliding over the ground. A filmy mist played across his skin.

"Stop it," Ron muttered in his sleep, batting his hands as though shooing away a fly.__

Time sped up, and before Ron even had a chance to say goodbye, his best mate had walked away, into Voldemort's inner circle. The Death Eaters jeered and howled, sounding more like wolves than human. Voldemort was as silent as Harry, regarding him with a wild, fierce light in his red eyes.

A flash of green, and both Harry and Voldemort toppled over. Horror swamped Ron, and anger like fire licked over him, rising from his toes to his head. He drew his wand, knowing the spell now, thanks to Crabbe, that would make it go away.

"He is dead!" cried Narcissa Malfoy, blond hair waving around her deathly pale face.

Voldemort laughed, voice high and shrill.

But Harry's body twitched, and slowly he began to stand. The Death Eaters didn't appear to notice; all eyes were on Voldemort. Ron's eyes met Harry's--

"I _didn't,_" Ron said fretfully. __

But in his nightmare, Harry's eyes went round with shock and terror as if he knew what Ron was about to do. Helpless to stop it, Ron gripped his wand tightly in both hands. Loathing himself, he said the words that would turn light the night on fire--

Ron jerked awake, gasping, sitting up in bed with the sheets tangled and sweaty around his body. It was morning, and the sunlight found its way into the tent in which Ron now lived. Blinking several times, quickly, he let his eyes adjust, wondering what had woken him.

This was the fourth time he'd had that particular nightmare, and usually, his sleeping mind forced him to watch Harry burn and listen to his screams. Trying without much success to push that thought away, he rolled over and swung his legs off the bed, planting his feet on the floor.

"Ron? Ron!"

Ron reeled back in shock. Hermione's voice had shattered the quiet of the morning, setting his heart to racing. His hands shook. _Bloody buggering hell._

"RON! Where are you?!" she shouted.

Hermione was just about the last person on the face of this earth that he wanted to see. Despite this, he moved to the flap of the tent, and pressed his ear against it. She couldn't see through the protective enchantments – the ones that she had taught him in the first place – he had placed around his new home.

"WHAT'S GOING ON WITH YOU?!" she screamed. "WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?!"

Ron wanted to run out there – he couldn't stand the desperation in her voice – but shame jerked him back not a moment too soon. One look at his face and she would know. _I'm surprised she hasn't guessed it already._ Harry had survived the Killing Curse once before; why had none of them ever thought he might survive it again?

Especially Ron.

Her voice faded away as she continued on her random search for him.

It was remarkable to him that the last time he'd seen her, she'd been bending over him, a smile lighting up her eyes. It had been early, early morning two days before he'd gone to see Dumbledore's portrait, before everything had changed. She'd stayed the night in his room.

"I wish you didn't have to go," Ron had said sleepily.

"I'll be home soon," she'd promised, pressing a lingering kiss on his lips. "It shouldn't take too long to get my parents sorted out."

"I'll be waiting," Ron had said.

Except that now, Ron didn't think he could stand the sight of her.

*********************************

_One and a half months after the Final Battle_

Ron sat on a high, lonely cliff overlooking the ocean. Shell Cottage was some distance away; he wished it were further sometimes. His tent was perched haphazardly on a mossy boulder a few feet behind him. No way in hell would he stay with Bill and Fleur.

Ron kicked at the ground, sending rocks and clumps of mud and grass flying over the edge. The sea swallowed them up as Ron watched, trying to use anything to distract him. He focused on the way the wind tangled his shoulder-length hair, and how he could feel the weak sunlight on the back of his neck._Thinking_ was too dangerous now; all it would do would be to make him want to blow up the cliff, or hunt down the few remaining Death Eaters.

Twigs snapped behind him; a throat cleared.

_Damn._

"Ron?"

"Go away, Bill," said Ron.

Bill ignored him and sat down, close enough that their shoulders brushed together. Squinting, Ron waited for Bill to talk, knowing he wouldn't be able to stop it. Ron had made it a general rule to avoid his large, loving family. He didn't fancy the thought of being encouraged or hugged into making a really stupid decision, like telling them the truth.

"You've got to stop this," Bill said sternly.

The one and only time that Ron had spoken to his dad after Ron had talked to Dumbledore's portrait – his belly cramped painfully at the memory – he'd sounded just the way Bill did now: firm, unyielding, and obviously trying to be helpful. His dad wanted him to accept the sodding Order of Merlin, First Class. Eventually, this encounter had ended with Ron screaming at his dad that he'd rather shove the award up Merlin's lily-white arse.

Ron hadn't been back to the Burrow since then.

A hand closed over his shoulder and squeezed. Hard. Ron was brought back to the moment; the thoughts that hung like storm clouds in his mind were chased away for a bit.

"Shove off," Ron muttered.

Bill sighed heavily. Ron took this to mean that his oldest brother's patience was wearing thin. Very thin. A part of him wanted to tell Bill the truth, what had really happened the night that Voldemort, and the Death Eaters, and _Harry_ had died. Wanted to tell him the nightmares that had dogged him since a week after the battle, and the day after the funerals. _And that's just fucking great,_ thought Ron darkly. There was no way in hell that Ron was going to tell anyone what a magnificent fuck up he was.

Ron reckoned that no one needed know what had happened that night in the forest, just after Harry had allowed Voldemort to use the Killing Curse. They knew a little. They knew that Harry had just stood there while Ron watched, unable to do anything because Harry had immobilized him, the sneaky bastard. But as soon as the green light had struck Harry in the chest, Ron had been able to move.

All it had taken was the sight of his best mate's body, and Voldemort struggling to his feet; Ron had unleashed Fiendfyre on everyone in the clearing.

"Ron—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, BILL!" Ron was on his feet and shouting before he even knew it. Dimly, he registered that this outburst hadn't come from Bill's words, but the fact that he could see Harry's supposedly dead body whenever he closed his eyes. Except that his mind played tricks on him, and every time Ron replayed the events in his head, he saw a foot or hand twitch, or Harry's chest rising up and down with breath, and—

"Get a hold of yourself," Bill said warningly. He dusted off the seat of his pants, looking as though he got screamed at by his brothers every day. His long hair hung in his face, already knotting in the wind.

"I've got a hold of myself," Ron shot back, albeit weakly.

Bill rolled his eyes, looking like a teenager. "You haven't been home to the Burrow since you rowed with Dad," he said. "You're living in a tent -- _my_ tent, I might add. You don't talk to anyone, Ginny says you won't even look at her, and you haven't spoken to Hermione at all since after the – the funerals."

Anger boiled up inside him, and he tilted his head back and looked up at the clouds in effort to control it. Bill had no idea. He'd already gotten on with his life, for the most part. The deaths of Fred and Harry had ripped a hole in the family, Ron knew. Recluse though he was, Ron wasn't unaware of the grief his family felt. George was never going to be the same again. But even he was beginning to put his life back together; he'd started up the Owl Order business again. And Bill… Bill was always bringing home artifacts from Gringotts; he hadn't officially gone back to work yet, but he'd been doing favors for the goblins.

"It's no one's business," Ron said stubbornly.

"Fred wouldn't want to see you like this," said Bill.

Ron knew that was the truth. Fred wouldn't have wanted to see those he loved acting like ghosts or angry. He'd rather be remembered with laughter and pranks. But Ron just couldn't manage it. Not yet.

"And Harry didn't let Voldemort kill him—"

"_Bill!_" Ron said loudly, covering his ears. _Childish much, Ron?_ asked a little voice in his head that sounded like Hermione. _Shut the fuck up,_ Ron told it. If Harry had actually been dead, if he'd actually been killed by Voldemort, then Harry absolutely would not have wanted anyone to grieve over him. Knowing him, Harry would probably even be surprised that the Weasleys thought his death as tragic as Fred's.

But Harry wasn't supposed to be dead. Dumbledore's portrait had explained it clearly, painfully, and compassionately. His words rung in Ron's ears. _Protection from his mother's blood… should have been able to return…_

"You aren't accomplishing anything, driving yourself insane," Bill said. His face was pale; Ron avoided his eyes. "It's awful that you had to watch Harry die, but Ron – you defeated Voldemort! Voldemort is gone thanks to you and Harry, and it's time you… you think about that."

Ron suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to tell Bill the truth; it flitted across his mind. But firm denial followed it. They didn't need to know that it had been Ron, not Voldemort, who had killed Harry, had dealt him the permanent blow just when he should have been safe and free of the prophecy.

Ron wondered if the magnitude of how he'd fucked up would ever stop shocking him. "I really don't want to talk about it," Ron said, hating the note of pleading in his tone. Relief suffused his limbs when Bill's shoulders relaxed a little, and he shook his head.

Amazingly, Bill, after telling Ron that he'd always want to listen whenever Ron was ready, started picking his way around and over the rocks that were between Ron's tent and Shell Cottage. Ron watched him go, shielding his eyes, and turned back to the sea.

He didn't see Bill or anyone else for over a week.


	4. Chapter Three: Wish

**CHAPTER THREE: WISH**

_Exactly two months after the Final Battle_

It was hunger that drove Ron out of his self-imposed exile.

Eating mushrooms was even worse when he was preparing the lumpy, grayish brown mess himself, and he felt a little bad for how hard a time he'd given Hermione during the Horcrux hunt. After one more breakfast of something gross and barely edible, Ron had had enough.

Poking his head out of the flap of his tent, he saw that the sun was barely peeking over the horizon. If he went to the Burrow now, he could probably avoid everyone. He could leave a quick note for his mother, explaining about the food, and he could be back in his tent before anyone knew he was there.

His stomach gave a painful twinge, and rumbled loudly, as though offering Ron support of his new idea. _Feed me something better than mushrooms, you blighter,_ it seemed to say. And unable to deny the demands of hunger, Ron slumped out of the tent, turned on the spot, and appeared a few feet into the orchard near the Burrow. It felt surreal, almost, to be back.

Shell Cottage was to the south of the Burrow; the sky was just beginning to lighten over the mountains. The hair on the back of Ron's neck prickled when he realized he was surrounded by trees again. But the wind brought the smell of ripening apples, rather than burning bodies. Even though the trees were smaller and more friendly, they cast shadows that reminded Ron far too much of his nightmares.

With embarrassing haste, he hurried out of the orchard. _I'm turning into a bloody coward,_ Ron thought darkly. He picked his way across the yard, stopping when two gnomes ran right over his feet. All the windows were dark, thankfully. The Burrow slept peacefully; hopefully, his presence wouldn't wake it.

One last glance around him, and he slipped the back door open, freezing when it gave a long squeak. Poised with one foot over the threshold, Ron barely breathed. If his mum had heard… if she looked at him and talked to him so compassionately again, Ron knew he'd be a goner. Already, the secret was fluttering around in his chest like a mental little Snitch, trying to break free.

But long moments passed without another sound, and gradually Ron relaxed enough to fully enter the dark, silent kitchen. _Home._ Despite himself, he felt a little rush of warmth. It was _good_ to be here, no matter that he'd stolen inside like a stranger.

His stomach didn't allow him to revel in this momentary homecoming: it growled at him, and Ron's eyes unerringly found the charmed cupboard that held leftovers. He stole across the room, and opened it. To his delight, he found it practically bulging with food: shepherd's pie, pork pies, treacle tart, vegetables, loaves upon loaves of bread, even an apple turnover… his mum had obviously been making enough food for a small army, and Ron was determined to sample every bit of it.

It wasn't hard for him to say goodbye to the mushrooms.

He spread his feast out on the table, summoning a plate and utensils with his wand, and set about attacking it with relish. Food – glorious food – hit his mouth and made his taste buds sore. His stomach celebrated, and each mouthful made the tension in his shoulders ease.

"I _knew_ you'd come back for food."

George's voice, wry, amused, and slurred nevertheless cracked like a whip in the quiet kitchen. Ron froze, fork halfway to his mouth. His brother stood with his arms folded, leaning up against the wall, watching him. Rumpled clothes hung on a usually stocky body, and dark shadows were purple smears under his eyes.

"Are you drunk?" Ron asked suspiciously.

"Not so much anymore," George shrugged. But when he listed to the left, he did nothing to straighten himself, and Ron had a pretty good idea that George was lying.

_What right have I got to say anything?_

So Ron turned his back and continued to eat. But unlike a few minutes earlier, he had little enjoyment of it. The skin on the back of his neck prickled, and the secret banged inside his chest, throwing itself against his ribs. _George is drunk. He lost Fred. I could tell him…_

But the desire burst like a bubble at George's next words.

"You've really done a number on Mum," said George. He pointed his finger. It wavered a bit. "You've got to come back home."

"Can't," Ron muttered around a slice of ham.

"Can't or won't?"

Ron shrugged, and stood up. Only his stomach didn't think it had been a bad idea to come, and he was ready to get the hell out of the Burrow. Ignoring George's glare, he put everything back into the charmed cupboard. To his own horror, the room blurred when the backs of his eyes stung.

"You're being pretty fucking selfish," George said angrily. Ron's shoulders tensed with an almost audible pop. "What the hell is wrong with you? You've gone completely mental, that's what," George muttered. "You just decided – oh, hey, my family doesn't need me around—"

"Shut the hell up, you don't know what you're talking about," Ron said, but his voice sounded weak even to his own ears.

"Mum feels like she lost Fred _and_ Harry _and_ you—"

"Stop."

"Maybe you haven't been getting the _Daily Prophet_," George said, voice heavily laced with sarcasm. "But I lost my _twin_ at the battle, and sure, Harry was your best mate, but if anyone's going to go completely insane it should be—"

"_You didn't kill Fred!_"

The words were ripped out of him. Ron spun around, staring at his brother, who was obviously too drunk and too confused to understand what Ron had meant. "Of course I didn't kill Fred," George scoffed. "And you didn't kill Harry – Voldemort did."

But Ron was shaking his head. "No – he meant to – but Harry was supposed to have survived the – the Killing Curse. Again. It was… it was my fire that…"

George stared at him. Ron could smell the stale hint of alcohol, and his brother's bleary eyes blinked at him several times. He'd never seen one of the twins look so confused, or so far from a ready quip. The silence billowed and swelled.

"Dumbledore said…" Ron said. _In for a knut, in for a galleon._ "He said that Harry should have lived. His mother's blood – remember how Voldemort used that to resurrect himself – it should've been an – I dunno – like an anchor to life. Should have…"

"What – you – what?" George said blankly.

"Harry was alive," Ron said fiercely. "I, well, I"--_murdered him,_ he meant to say, but the words stuck in his throat—"fucked everything up. Harry is dead. He's dead because of me."

"_What did you say?_"

This didn't come from George, but from Ginny. His stomach freefell down to his feet and sank through the floor. _When did she get here?_ But it didn't matter when or how, only that she was there and standing a little bit behind George, eyes huge in her pale face. The edges of her nightgown poked out from under her tattered dressing gown, and her feet were encased in socks that were much too large for her.

"You heard me," Ron said, suddenly _hating_ her for being there just then. "Dumbledore's portrait said that Harry would've been alive when I burned down the forest." He watched the blood drain from her face, slowly, and a trembling hand come up to cover her mouth.

"What the fuck?" George breathed.

A minute – one of the longest, most uncomfortable, most _painful_ minutes of his life – passed in silence. George and Ginny stared at him, moved closer to each other, presenting a united front. Against Ron. This wasn't anything more than he had expected. But seeing George listing to the side, drunk, and Ginny's small figure beside him made his chest tighten.

_Shouldn't have said anything._

"You didn't even check?" George broke the silence. He didn't actually come right out and say _how fucking stupid are you?_ but Ron heard it nonetheless. "He survived the curse before, and you _didn't even check?_"

Ron shook his head. "Narcissa Malfoy, she… she _lied_ or something and—"

But the excuse sounded so pitiful to his ears. It was obvious now that he shouldn't have blithely trusted a Death Eater, or the evidence of his own eyes. Harry could've enchanted her, used the Imperius Curse, or a hundred different spells that would make her tell Voldemort that he was dead. And he'd been lying there, trying to figure out a way to keep fighting… and Ron had burned him.

_Burned alive._

"This isn't just a normal Ron-being-stupid thing, Ron," said George, lips twisting as he looked sidelong at their sister. "You _killed_--"

"WHY WOULD HE TAKE YOU WITH HIM?" Ginny shouted, finding her voice, and interrupting George. Her face was bright red now, matching her hair, and her fists were clenched tightly at her sides.

"What?"

"He should've taken me with him, not you," she said harshly. "I wouldn't have – I would have made _sure_ and – Ron, _how could you?_" Her voice broke, and Ron knew that if she was about to start crying, he literally wouldn't be able to take it. The looks on their faces – fury, grief, and disgust – were stark and easy to read, and he slowly began to back toward the door.

"I wish he had too," said Ron hoarsely. "Ginny, whatever you're thinking right now, I've been thinking it—"

"You have no idea what I'm thinking right now," said Ginny severely. "I wish I'd gone with him, not you… I wish he were here with us, and knowing that he – that he – could have been… it's… killing me. You _murdered_ him."

"I know," said Ron.

But he was, unbelievably, distracted. And he only heard his brother's comments as though George was speaking to him underwater. One single word that his sister had repeated reverberated through his head, echoing, and growing louder. Until he remembered sitting in his oldest brother's cottage, feeling depressed, and hearing about an armband… a magical armband that could grant a _wish…_

_Wish._

"I have to go," he said suddenly.

"Hold on just a second—" George said angrily.

"_Of course_ you have to go," Ginny said derisively, cutting across George. She stumbled forward, almost tripping, made clumsy by her oversized socks. Harry's socks. George caught her by the elbow. "YOU BLOODY COWARD!" she shouted, beside herself.

"Wait—" Ron said.

"_HOW – COULD – YOU?!_"

Doors slammed, and Ron heard his mother yell for his father. "Ginny, I think I can fix it—"

"That's impossible," George said flatly.

_Wish._

"Maybe," admitted Ron. "But maybe not."

It was lucky that Ginny didn't have her wand on her. The look on her face suggested all sorts of unpleasant things, and Ron reached behind him and pulled open the door, knowing that he needed to escape the Burrow now, before his parents came down the stairs, before he spilled out this plan to them.

They'd try to stop him.

"You can't just _leave,_" George said.

But Ron did exactly that.

*****************************

_Exactly two months after the Final Battle_

Shell Cottage, on its lonely stretch of cliff, was quiet when Ron Apparated into the middle of the front yard. Despite his sister's words, for the first time since he'd spoken to Dumbledore's portrait, Ron felt like he had a purpose. Maybe – just_maybe_ -- he'd be able to live with himself…

It was a long shot, but Ron was going to seize that chance with both hands and never let go. His heartbeat drummed loudly in his ears. How often did a man have a real shot at fixing a terrible mistake? It would be like if the Cannons had been given the chance to redo that spectacular loss to Puddlemere United, and given a vat of Felix Felices to boot.

Something niggled at the back of his mind. Ron had a shrewd idea what it was, but as he marched up the shell-strewn walk, he ignored it. He doubted the curse would_kill_ him. Hadn't Bill said that people had used the armband before?

_What's the worst that could happen?_

Bill and Fleur were nowhere in sight – probably still asleep – when Ron let himself in the door. At first, his movements were furtive and sly, but the sense of purpose that had ignited upon hearing Ginny's words prodded him through his sudden nervousness. Pausing outside the door of the sitting room, Ron's stomach dropped.

He had not once wondered if the armband had been returned to Gringotts, where it would be forever out of his reach. _Don't think about that,_ Ron ordered himself, and pushed open the door. His heart pounded and his hands trembled. Across the room was a mirror, and Ron almost didn't recognize the pale, almost gaunt man he saw in it.

A rustle from upstairs interrupted the silent moments he spent staring at himself._No more pitying yourself,_ Ron told himself sternly. In many ways, Ron was reliving the most infamous Quidditch match between the Selham Selkies and Puddlemere United back in 1987. The Selkies had caught _a_ Snitch, ending the game and achieving victory. But upon closer inspection, it turned out that it hadn't been the game Snitch, but a doddering, battered one that had been flying around for months, probably. The game had begun again, and Puddlemere had stomped all over the Selkies, playing harder and faster than ever before.

Ron was going to do exactly the same thing.

His resolve was only strengthened when, after only a moment of searching the clean shelves, he spied the armband. The gold seemed to shine in the early dawn; the sun's rays hit it just right, and it no longer looked battered and ancient. He took this as a sign that this was the right thing – the only thing – to do. Any thoughts or fears of a curse were overpowered, and he grasped it in his left hand, and slid it onto his right arm.

_Let me have another chance. To save Harry. To do the right thing. And save Fred, too._ Those thoughts – that wish – were so loud in his mind that it was almost as though he'd shouted them. Eyes widening, he stared as the effeminate, graceful hieroglyphs shifted and melted into something simpler.

It _burned._

"Ow, _shit,_" Ron expelled a breath, the pain forcing tears into his eyes. "Shit, shit, shitty, fuckity-fuck – fucking -- _ow_!!" His arm felt like it was on _fire_, and though the flesh around the armband was unburned – Ron watched it in growing horror – he swore he could smell burning flesh, like he'd done in the forest that night…

And just as abruptly as the pain had begun, it ended, leaving Ron gasping, eyes squeezed tightly shut. _Please, let it work,_ he begged. His entire body trembled with excitement and trepidation. Pain forgotten, he imagined a thousand different scenarios. If his wish came true, Harry might even be here at Shell Cottage – he'd stayed there before, hadn't he? While they'd been on the Horcrux hunt?

Fred would be at the Burrow, probably, with George. Or at their little flat above Diagon Alley. But wherever they were… Ron had just wished them back alive. He'd be free of the guilt and grief. But most importantly, they'd be _alive._

Drawing in a deep breath, Ron opened his eyes. The sitting room was still empty. A wave of disappointment washed over him, but he quickly dismissed it. _Why would they be in the room with you, you wanker?_ he asked himself. Filled with energy, he strode over to the door--

"I'm afraid it doesn't work like that," said the high, gleeful voice of a young boy.


	5. Chapter Four: Mirror

**CHAPTER FOUR: MIRROR**

_Exactly two months after the Final Battle  
02 July 1998_

The room was precisely the same as it had been two seconds before. It was littered with interesting artifacts, the light of the rising sun streamed through the windows, spreading steadily across the floor, and the clock in the corner merrily ticked on. But that voice had to have come from _somewhere_, even if the room was completely empty.

Ron narrowed his eyes, and looked around the room, expecting to see the ghost of a young child, or perhaps the old wireless that sat in a corner had unexpectedly turned on. Bill was just like their dad, always charming things to make weird things happen—

"Over here," the voice said again; he sounded beleaguered. Underneath the youthfulness of it was an underlying note of weariness, and suddenly Ron half-expected to see a wizened, stooped old wizard hiding behind an armchair or behind the flowered curtains.

"Over where?" Ron asked suspiciously.

A flash of movement caught his eye, and he turned. His brows came together when he saw the murky, shadowed reflection of a boy in the mirror that hung beside the hearth. On reflex, he glanced around the room again. The boy was only a reflection. _And isn't that just weird,_ thought Ron.

He grimaced. Ron had been indifferent to magic mirrors up until he was about eleven, and Harry had found the Mirror of Erised. Then he was slightly intrigued and slightly wary of them until he was fourteen, and a particularly shrewish talking mirror had berated him for flexing his muscles ("Even in a magic mirror, those muscles aren't anything to brag about," it had said, snidely). He'd avoided them ever since.

Until now, damn it.

_Just fucking do it._

"And how, exactly, does it work?" Ron asked, folding his arms across his chest. He scratched at where the armband touched his skin. "The wishing."

"It isn't just _handed_ to you," the boy scoffed, as though Ron was about three years old. "It's your heart's desire, it has to be _earned._"

Ron's brows flew upward. The boy somewhat reminded him of a smaller, meaner, male version of Hermione. This gave him more confidence. "Oh yeah?" he asked belligerently. "Well that doesn't sound like much of a wish, does it? They should be walking right through that door, shouldn't they?"

The boy rolled his eyes and muttered something in a language Ron did not know. But he understood the tone of voice well enough. "It doesn't work that way," he said again. "I can give you the tools to save your friend and your brother, but I cannot do it for you. Just as I provided a _very_ strong beautifying potion for the last supplicant, but I couldn't actually force that wizard to fall in love with her." He pursed his lips, slanting a glance at Ron. "I thought he was a bit of a fool, myself, but I don't get to pick wishes for people."

Ron's mind was moving very quickly. He pointed at it. "If by 'tools' you mean the Resurrection Stone or something similar, that just isn't going to cut it. I already know that it wouldn't be Harry and Fred returning. It would be - it wouldn't really be them. And I want them back." _I don't want to have murdered Harry._

Maybe the curse that Bill had warned him about was the fact that the armband was a useless piece of rubbish.

"I didn't mean the Resurrection Stone," the boy said. He now sounded bored, as though Ron's crisis was nothing he hadn't seen before. "Now that I'm thinking about it and exploring all of the different possibilities, I do believe that it will be far simpler than I previously thought to help bring your friend and your brother back to life."

Ron gaped at him. The boy's dry voice reminded him somewhat of Professor Binns. _I wonder if the armband's curse is to be boring?_ "And... how?"

The boy waved his arm expansively. "I know what you're thinking - I've had enough people ask me about time travel"--Ron most assuredly had _not_ been thinking about traveling through time - was that even possible?--"and it's just impossible. _But_ I can cause a little divergence back in the past that will change the present enough to allow you to fulfill your wish--"

Ron's mind zoomed into overdrive, as he imagined a present in which Harry and Fred would both be alive. It would be perfect... they could have a meal at the Burrow and laugh and revel in the fact that Voldemort was _dead._ He had no clue what the mirror boy meant by _divergence_, and he didn't much care. All he cared was that he was going to be given a_chance_.

"--insane--"

"Wait, what?" Ron interrupted. He hadn't been paying attention to what the boy had been telling him, but that word had pierced through his imaginings.

The boy blinked slowly. Three times. "Have you even been listening to me?" he asked.

"Not really," Ron said honestly. "But what's this about insane?"

"Why should I tell you when you aren't listening?"

"I'm listening _now,_" Ron told him.

"Very well," the boy said peevishly. "The vessel body I put you into will have to be totally insane. Otherwise you'd have two sets of differing memories in your head, and that _would_ drive you crazy, and therefore incapable of fulfilling your wish. In fact, I am bound by my own nature to ensure that this does not happen; I am not allowed to hinder you in any way, only help."

Ron's eyes were crossing and the words _vessel body_ kept running around in his mind, but he managed to carefully listen to every word, even if he didn't quite understand.

"If your mind has already been broken, then your consciousness will slip right in," the boy said, grinning. "It'll be really easy... child's play for me, really. The transference will be smooth, I'm sure, and I've already selected the _perfect_ moment of divergence," he giggled, "and it's only been two years, so even the clouded memories won't last very long, and the moment is almost exactly when you go crazy--"

Ron stopped listening. It wasn't that he was trying to be rude, but the boy wasn't explaining himself in terms that Ron could understand. What the hell did he know about the vessel bodies and cloudy memories and points of divergence?_Just get the hell on with it and stop being an instruction manual,_ thought Ron. If all the boy could do was give him the tools, then _give me the damn tools already!_

The boy droned on and on.

Ron no longer thought he sounded like Hermione at all. Hermione was a lot sexier and more interesting, and whenever she got like this all Ron could think about was kissing her breathless and speechless. Instead, he thought about how much better life was going to be when he saved Harry and Fred.

It would be a victory.

"--didn't your mother teach you to _pay attention_ when people are taking control of your life?" the boy asked, sounding extremely hacked off.

"Yeah," shrugged Ron. "But she also taught me not to get trapped in mirrors. Didn't _your_ mum--"

The boy let out a string of what had to be swear words in some foreign language; Ron hid a smile. "_Fine,_" he said petulantly. "I won't tell you anymore. I'll just let you figure out everything for yourself, since you aren't listening to me anyway. Obviously you don't care what you're about to head into--"

"All that shit doesn't matter," Ron shook his head. "I just watched my best mate take a Killing Curse because he wanted to save the people he loved," he added sincerely. "After that, I'm not going to quibble about a few details like sanity." He imagined that he'd been tortured into insanity like Neville's mum and dad. That was something he could deal with--

"Wait," Ron said. "I'll be sane again when you put me in the vessel body or whatever, right?"

The boy eyed him, mouth tightening. "You'll be exactly how you are right now," he said. "As I have already told you three times. But whether that is sane or not..." he let his voice trail away delicately.

"Let's do this," said Ron. "I'd like to be done by dinner."

Ron was a little put off when the boy threw back his head and laughed, looking his age for the first time since Ron had seen him. Loose and unfettered, the sound was sure to wake Bill and Fleur, and really, what was so funny?

"What the hell's so funny?" Ron asked suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing," he said cheerfully. "As you say, let's do this."

"And what, exactly, do I need to do?"

"Step through me," the boy said tauntingly.

Without even thinking about it - and ignoring the smug, slightly bemused look on the boy's face - Ron stepped through the mirror. It was like the barrier at King's Cross, an object that was not as solid as it appeared. And he had one moment of familiarity, where he thought things were finally going to be all right.

That feeling quickly disappeared.

The wind did not start gently, but swept him up, screeching in his ears. "What the--" Ron slammed his eyes shut; they were already watering, and his feet were off the floor... if there had ever been a floor to begin with. That brief instant had not been enough to gauge his surroundings, but what he'd seen had been soft and gray, misty and... insubstantial.

But Ron focused his mind on more important things, like trying to keep his body from being battered by the wind, and ignored the fact that he really had no idea what the fuck he'd gotten himself into. Who cared if things looked weird? It wasn't _that_ big of a deal, was it? And the wind... it was sort of like flying on a broom...

_I don't see a broom,_ Ron thought mutinously, and his resolve to not let this bother him went right out the window. Fear rushed in as surely as had the wind, and Ron let it. He was alone and doing something possibly stupid, and he might even _die_ here--

"_RON!_"

Harry's voice. It was tinny and faraway, but Ron's eyes popped open. At first he couldn't see anything, but as he squinted, the wind began to die down and a strange image appeared in front of him, moving closer. It was as though from a play; the images were indistinct, but Ron thought he could see red hair.

"_Ron, you coward!_ Come back! COME BACK!"

That was Hermione, and Ron recoiled from the hatred and -- was it fear? -- that was plainly audible in her tone. Genuine hatred, and calling him a coward. Despite himself, Ron peered closer, just in time to see the indistinct figures turn into smoke and waft away. But Ron was not alone for long, and this time, it was his own laughter he heard first.

Unease crept over him, ice trickling up his spine, pushing back the mindless fear. It left Ron cold.

"You're such a bastard."

"Don't _hurt_ me," said Draco Malfoy, sounding about five years old, breathless. Ron narrowed his eyes, taking in the blurry scene in front of him. He saw himself standing with his wand on Malfoy, who cowered on the ground. "I - I - I--"

"You couldn't even do one thing right, could you?"

"He ended up dead anyway!" Draco screamed, lifting his hand to block his eyes.

The figures faded away just as Ron heard himself say "_Crucio._"

The little scenes continued, growing steadily more focused, but Ron had absolutely no inclination to watch. Still, his eyes were fixed on them, unable to look away. Ron, killing; Ron, torturing people, innocent people not just Malfoy. About the time he watched himself set fire to the orchard next to the Burrow, Ron had convinced himself it was just a dream.

_It's just a dream_, he told himself fervently. "Just a nightmare." A nightmare in which Ron was a real knobjockey, who apparently had a particular fondness for the Cruciatus Curse. Eventually, he closed his eyes. The scenes were too close, too bright, and too _real_ for him to watch.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" shouted Fred.

But Ron couldn't turn off his ears as easily as he shut his eyes. A little breeze plucked at his robes as he knelt, listening to the screams and the scattered, hateful comments from his friends and f--

"And what have we here?" someone crooned.

In that moment, everything changed. Before, he had been watching and listening... but now, he was actually involved in the scene. Bellatrix Lestrange gazed at him, mockery and insanity alight in her heavy-lidded eyes. She wasn't looking at a different Ron - a Ron who apparently loved torture the way the real Ron loved Quidditch - but she was looking straight at him.

Dimly, Ron felt an awful, writhing pain in his chest. Glancing down, he saw one of the brains from the Ministry of Magic, burrowing into it. Tentacles wrapped around him in an ugly hug, squeezing him until he was gasping from the pain of it. Lifting his head, he saw a satisfied little smirk hovering over Bellatrix's lips. He felt as though daggers were being shoved into his chest, but the way she licked her lips at the sight of his pain disturbed him far worse than the physical pain.

Ron tore his eyes away from her. "What the fuck is this?" he asked. Where was Hermione, Harry, Ginny, and the others? Why was he alone in the brain room? They'd been there, at the Ministry of Magic - hadn't one of them pulled the brains off of him? The moments dragged on, and still Ron was alone with Bellatrix and the tub of brains, and _where were his friends?_

Grasping futilely at the brain and the tentacles, Ron tried to rip it off his body, but it just came closer and closer, twining around him, while Bellatrix laughed.

"_Crucio_," Bellatrix said softly.

Ron braced himself.

And the pain blossomed in his body, making every other injury he'd ever had in his entire life feel like a stupid little paper cut. _This is how Hermione felt at Malfoy Manor?_ Ron grasped at that, but every thought except _Merlin, make the pain end,_ slowly edged out of his brain. The world went black and red around him, blurring and twisting.

_Make it end._

***************************

_02 July 1998_

Slowly, he came back to himself.

Ron felt as though he were on the deck of a ship. His body felt wrung out, and as he fought his way back up from the truly bizarre dreams he'd had -- _Better lay off the mushrooms,_ he told himself -- it was all he could do not to roll over and vomit. After the strange, ghostly dream had almost faded away entirely, leaving smoky shadows in his mind, he grew aware of a great pain in his chest.

_What the hell?_

Struggling, Ron attempted to open his eyes, but failed. His hands scrabbled at where the pain was worst, directly over his heart. He thought perhaps he was dying, and fought for breath. _What a great way to go,_ Ron thought bitterly. Alone, in his tent, his heart stopping in his chest even though he was only eighteen years old. But even as he accepted it, the pain receded.

"I have _really_ got to stop eating mushrooms," he muttered, scratching his chest. The light stabbed his eyelids, and he held them shut. His "memories" of the day before had obviously been brought on by alcohol, if his head hurt this badly. After he'd told George and Ginny the truth... had he even gone over to Bill's house, or had he just started drinking right away?

_Obviously_ he hadn't used the armband, made a wish, and stepped into a nightmare. _Obviously._ There hadn't been a little boy with eyes that appeared to hold the stars. He hadn't felt the mirror turn to something like water - he hadn't gone in heart first. The dreams hadn't been real, _obviously,_ how could they be?

It was stupid.

Ron was stupid.

Even as he mentally berated himself, muttering under his breath, he opened his eyes--

The room was opulent, decadent, even. Light spilled through high windows that sparkled like diamonds. Hardwood floors spread out in front of him, and the bed Ron found himself lying in was softer and more comfortable than anything he'd felt in his life.

A little quiver of _wrongness_ hung in the air.

Ron's eyes caught on another mirror that hung over a dresser. He looked in the very bloom of health, as though he ate plenty of good food every day, and had not subsisted mainly on mushrooms (which may or may not have been hallucinogenic) for the last month and a half. An angry-looking, oval mark stood out prominently on his chest. But even as Ron stared at it, it faded, leaving it normal once more.

"What the--?"

He slid out of bed with far too much ease. Fear rooted deep inside him when he gazed down at himself in horror. _Silk pajamas?!?!_

"Silk pajamas?" he hooked his fingers inside the offensive garment -- _Blue silk pajamas? What the fuck?_ -- and pulled it away from his body, just to check and make sure everything was still where it should be. His mind kept stuttering over the fact that he was _wearing silk pajamas, for the love of Merlin._ He'd woken up in a strange room, wearing something he normally wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.

Merlin, this was the type of stuff that asshole Draco Malfoy would wear.

But nothing, not even the horror of his sleepwear, could prepare him for what he saw next.

A scream ripped out of his throat before he could stop it (distantly, a part of him blamed his indecent pajamas), and he leapt back onto the bed, just barely managing to resist the urge to pull the covers up over his head. On the opposite wall from the mirror hung a single portrait. Ron couldn't help but stare at it, even though he desperately wanted to look away, like the second time he'd ever gone to a professional Quidditch match, and he'd seen a three broom collision.

A simpering smile curled arrogant lips. Eyes bulged. A little pink bow perched carefully in her hair. Even in a portrait, Dolores Umbridge wore an ugly pink cardigan. To complete the disturbing picture, one of her stupid little plates with a big-eyed, creepily cute cat hung directly below the portrait.

"Oh, shit," Ron breathed.

Something was obviously wrong. Wronger than wrong. Ron pressed his hands over his eyes (both to block out the image of Umbridge's portrait _staring_ at him, and to attempt to force some clarity into his head with brute force). Thoughts buzzed through his head, but before they could formulate, denial kept rushing in to confuse him further.

_But I thought it would be--_

--what the--

--Please don't let it be true--

--I think I'm going to--

Ron's eyes shot open and, needing answers and not giving himself any time to stop himself, he glanced down at his left arm. His stomach dropped alarmingly, and the bed seemed to sway, and this time it was not because the sight of Umbridge revolted him so much.

The Dark Mark spread across his forearm like an ugly black scar. Ron could feel it, even, a constant, low-level thrum of pain. It filled his vision, until the skull and snake was all he could see. His eyes blurred, and it appeared to move... the snake seemed to hiss at him, and little lightly shone smugly in the empty sockets of the skull.

Ron was a Death Eater.


End file.
